


better dodge a question than a bullet

by eighteenavenues



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, NSFW, but before season two, post-season one, there's a hint of smuttiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4974433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eighteenavenues/pseuds/eighteenavenues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world spins because what’s been dead isn’t supposed to come back (and come back, and come back). You feel yourself darken and she looks worried. </p>
<p>“You don’t look so good, I mean, you look good always but right now you look less good. I mean—“ and she’s still talking and you don’t want to worry her, so you lean forward to kiss her on that mile-a-minute mouth. The minute you pull away, though, she’s talking again and maybe the girl has a point—“you look like you’re going to pass out. Can vampires even pass out? Carm, are you okay?”</p>
<p>You pull your face into a smile and close your eyes for a moment to make the dizziness abate. “I’m fine, Cupcake.”  </p>
<p>“Carm,” she says in that panic-edged voice and her hands are on your body, so you can’t breathe for two reasons now. There’s a bed underneath you, by force of gravity or those hands, and a cup by your lips and you gratefully drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	better dodge a question than a bullet

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place right during the S1 finale (right around when the credits are, I suppose?). I wasn't satisfied originally with how easily Carm recovers from basically dying all over again, so I gave her a harder time.

She is apologizing for being rough, stuttering over words that are coming too quickly from a mouth that is too far away. She is dropping your arm like it burned her palm. She is biting her lip and widening her eyes and stepping back.

And she tastes something like butterscotch.

//

The world spins because what’s been dead isn’t supposed to come back (and come back, and come back). You feel yourself darken and she looks worried. 

“You don’t look so good, I mean, you look good always but right now you look less good. I mean—“ and she’s still talking and you don’t want to worry her, so you lean forward to kiss her on that mile-a-minute mouth. The minute you pull away, though, she’s talking again and maybe the girl has a point—“you look like you’re going to pass out. Can vampires even pass out? Carm, are you okay?”

You pull your face into a smile and close your eyes for a moment to make the dizziness abate. “I’m fine, Cupcake.” 

“Carm,” she says in that panic-edged voice and her hands are on your body, so you can’t breathe for two reasons now. There’s a bed underneath you, by force of gravity or those hands, and a cup by your lips and you gratefully drink.

The world’s still foggy but you can hear staccato breathing, feel her sobs in the air, “Carm, Carm, Carm,” she murmurs.

//

“It was a little fainting spell, Cupcake, nothing to worry about.”

She’s looking down at you and it’s awfully hard to be caviler when the love of your not-life is standing over you looking like she’ll fall apart if you don’t say something. 

“You were so pale,” she says.

You smile, “I’m always pale.” 

“That’s not what I mean,” she says and you know what she means, of course, but that’s a harder question to answer, so you stick with the biting sarcasm and the even more biting silence. She’s too relieved to resent you.

//

Recovery gives reason to continue dodging the tricky parts of this whole situation. There’s no better excuse for avoiding difficult discussions like giving in to the real fatigue and frailty that follows any post-death experience. 

“You’re tired,” she says, “sleep.”

But behind your eyelids is a blinding light and a mother’s shriek. You didn’t ever ask to be this hero and now you can’t get any peace for it. She says “we’re saved because of you,” and you want to ask who’s going to save you, but the question would just make her sad, so you swallow it.

//

It’s like this for days. Or, it’s like this, and you assume it’s been days because she’s always hovering over you and there seems to be a different outfit on her body every time you see her. Not that you spend all of your conscious time looking at her body, though you do spend much of it doing this. She is humanly soft, all curves and rounded edges. You don’t know how to compliment this without her misunderstanding.

“I want to touch you so gently that you shatter,” is too violent and too flowery to be innuendo but you don’t have other dirty words. These would do the trick if she remembered to lock the door. She didn’t. You love her for this because you love her, but you still glare at the unwelcome redheaded intruder when they appear.

//

“We need to talk,” she says. You don’t want to talk. Your lungs feel heavy in your chest, the cavity too hollow for much these days. You are made of bones and leather and survival, talking is beside the point. You are capable of very little more than listless wandering and spending too long studying the curve of her waist.

“What are we doing?” she tries again. She says it with so much muster that you crack a small grin and trace the curve of her hair on her cheek. She is such a small thing, she is too easy to break to be allowed to break you. You want to do anything other than pull her close only a little less than you want to pull her against your lips and never let go. Competing desires never worked out well for anyone. There is better use for your mouth than awkward discussion.

It is clear enough what you believe by the red-blotched trails you leave blooming down her neck and collarbone, the rouge more intense even than her blush upon finding them in the mirror.

“Carm!” she says, but you laugh and touch her waist and she melts into you just right.

You work your mouth down her stomach, following that soft and breathing skin. There are bites at her thighs, your teeth dragging the edge of her lace underwear. She is saying your name over and over again, you are lightheaded from wanting, still sore in so many places but aching now for her obscenely.

The door opens and the intruder apologizes and you agree with her now, you do need to talk, but less about commitment and more about investing in a good lock. Close the door tight and keep all of the bad world out, seal off everything that isn’t the small bit of paradise you’ve found in this dorm room. The confinement would only be a blessing, there’s little good to be found outside of her small body with its mussed hair and desire blown pupils.

She pushes you away. She says, “What are you thinking about? You look distracted.”

You try to distract yourself in her, touch her in the way that arches her back, pretend she’s a puppet and you know the strings to make her sing. It’s okay to mix metaphors, you think, when it comes to her. She mixes everything up in you so well that you can hardly be blamed.

She shakes her head and demands a better answer. You have none.

I want, you think, to love you so hard that your humanity rubs off on me. You can’t say that to her. Instead you say, “I’m thinking about butterscotch, about how haven’t eaten many cookies lately. Lost your sweet tooth, Cupcake?”

Her smile is full of cheese, she kisses you so messily that your unbeating heart feels filled to the brim. “Found something sweeter,” she tells you. 

And you let her believe that she has.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a review! They help me improve and encourage my lazy butt to do more writing!


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